


Panoptes

by BitZombie



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, I really have no idea how to tag this, Is The Lonely a character?, Jon is mentioned in passing and not by name but you'll recognize it when you see it, Martin Blackwood-centric, mentions of various fears, plague mention, that's for sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24461203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitZombie/pseuds/BitZombie
Summary: He knows the amulet belongs to the man in the portrait - The Watcher, They Who See All, The Void Itself – and he should definitely not touch it....He picks it up.ORMartin might need to revisit his decision-making paradigm.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 32





	Panoptes

**Author's Note:**

> A Warning: This AU is supposed to take place at the tail end of a severe plague. Given the current global... situation, this is a valid fear for a lot of people, so if talk of plagues and quarantine and plague-related death upsets you, maybe give this a pass? It's not detailed by any means, but it's definitely there.
> 
> Also no beta, apologies for any glaring mistakes. I'll likely fix them later.
> 
> Otherwise, carry on!

Martin, contrary to the opinion of his mother, is not stupid. He makes poor choices, stupid ones even, but overall, he likes to think he’s fairly intelligent. He’s managed to survive into adulthood on his own merit amid sudden poverty and plague, after all, and that should really count for something, he thinks. That being said, Martin is also self-aware enough to realize that the situation he finds himself in presently is entirely of his own making and is definitely the result of a series of aforementioned stupid choices. No smart decision making would have ever resulted in him sneaking past three separate barricades, two city guard patrols and a horrifyingly rabid pack of rats, to begin with. It also wouldn’t have necessitated breaking into a condemned apartment in a bid to hide from the Counters.

The Body Counters, Martin has learned in the past few months - through hushed stories passed around dingy pubs - don’t particularly care if the bodies they find during their patrols are alive or not. They’re paid per corpse they deliver to the city’s medical examiners, and as far as anyone else is concerned, once you step foot in their domain, you’ve signed your own death certificate. The condemned districts are condemned for a reason, and there is nothing worth risking your health and continued existence to be found within them. Only plague shrouds and empty buildings.

Unless you are one Martin Blackwood and have made the foolish decision to throw common sense to the void and head inside at the request of a pair of particularly ragged-looking children.

Under his breath, Martin lets out a string of invectives as he wrestles with the door that stands between him and temporary sanctuary, the unnerving sound of the Counter’s cart clattering dully against cobblestones in the early evening air.

“Oh yes, yes Martin. Brilliant decision-making as always. What could possibly go wrong, wandering into a bloody quarantine zone – for lost toys of all things!” With a grunt, he shoves the door open just enough, the shelf toppled behind it dragging across the wooden floor with a muted scraping sound. Behind him, Martin can hear the thud of bodies being loaded into a cart, an awful rhythm punctuated by the droning sound of counting and vicious laughter. Without hesitation martin forces his rucksack through the dark gap between door and frame, following suit as quickly as he can. A quick glance back into the still-empty street and he’s closing the door as quietly as he can, picking up his things and heading deeper into the darkened apartment.

It’s quite large, as apartments go, and even in the half-light of boarded windows and fading sunlight Martin can see traces of the family that used to call it home. The wallpaper is finely patterned and faded with age, darker in places that hold the memory of hanging portraits and family photographs. Whoever lived here, they left before the district was condemned, taking what possessions they could carry in an attempt to outrun the plague, perhaps. The carpet is plush enough to muffle the sound of his shoes across the floor, and the furniture is solid wood, well crafted and heavy. It’s all very ornately carved, a little bit ostentatious, throwing oddly shaped shadows across Martin’s path.

The district itself had only been condemned weeks prior, supposedly the final casualty of a plague finally fading into the past tense of the city’s memory. Yet as Martin treads deeper, the dust that billows up around his feet and the cobwebs that cling to his fingers speak of decades of abandonment, not weeks or even months. The rooms are all in a state of disarray, shelves pulled from the walls and tables overturned as though whoever had left, had done so in a hurry.

Overall it’s… creepy. Definitely more unsettling than the empty orphanage Martin had combed through, searching for the toys that had led to this predicament in the first place. There, the dust had been thin, the furniture as neat as it likely had been in the past, the only evidence of sudden abandonment the unmade beds in the dormitories, and the open files left on the Headmistress’ desk. Here, the dark feels thick, present in a way it really, really shouldn’t in the early evening, lingering in corners and under furniture. Unease prickles across the tense line of Martin’s shoulders, nerves prompting a quiet but steady stream of narration as he looks for a place to sit and wait. The sound of his own voice in the dim and shuttered quiet is not a relief, but at least a distraction.

“Right. Well. If I’m going to be here, might as well get something useful done while I wait… No time like the present, right? Right. Yes. Where did I put that knife… Ah! There we go,” Martin pulls a small carving knife from his rucksack, followed by a small piece of whalebone, and puts both in his coat pocket.

“Now. Some light, maybe? Wonder if there’s any candles about…”

Truthfully, he doesn’t really want to wander any further into the apartment but sitting on his hands and staring into the dark seems like the notably worse option – if he has to wander about a bit, so be it.

“Not like there’s likely to be anyone else here after all. I shouldn’t even be here. Honestly, Martin, what were you thinking?” With a sigh, he shifts his bag back onto his shoulder, and wanders further into the gloom.

The answer of course, is that he hadn’t been thinking at all. The children had caught him in a particularly vulnerable mood, ears still ringing from his mother’s newest complaints and desperate for an excuse to feel useful. He’d seen them before, selling matches near the pub, and he’d made a point of dropping what small change he could spare into their hands when he passed them on the way to work in the evenings. Evidently, he’d gained their trust in some way, because the eldest – a boy of about nine by the name of Lonnie – had tugged at his shirt cuff and asked, stutteringly, if Martin knew anyone who went into the condemned districts for scrap, and if so, would Martin be willing to ask them to look for something on behalf of Lonnie and his sister, Clara.

Martin did know some scrap hunters, but he also knew they’d never go out of their way to find toys for street children, so he offered to do it himself, kicking himself even as he said the words. The smile on Clara’s face, hidden as she was behind Lonnie’s shoulder, was all the payment Martin needed, and after Lonnie scribbled him a crude map to the orphanage, he’d set out.

Now, Martin’s stuck in an empty apartment, combing through dusty cabinets in a vain attempt to find some candles so he can at least do something while he waits for night proper to slip back out of the district. Empty shelf after empty shelf proves that it won’t be nearly as easy as first assumed, and Martin continues, reluctantly, into the kitchen at the back of the first floor, ignoring the staircase that climbs up into the gloom of the upper floor.

As soon as he steps over the threshold of the kitchen, the fine hairs on the back of Martin’s neck lift, and he pauses just inside the doorway. The air feels charged, almost like static but muffled, muted somehow. As far as he can see, the room is no different to any other room he’s seen so far. The kitchen table is upright, but set at an angle, as though it had been shoved aside, one of the chairs pinned between it and the wall. There are dishes in the sink and the faint sickly-sweet smell of long-rotten fruit in the air.

When nothing immediately jumps out at him, Martin edges deeper into the kitchen, doing his best not to touch anything. With each hesitant step, he becomes more and more aware of a soft humming, an unidentifiable tune that ebbs and flows through his ears like the tide. The sound is… oddly comforting, like a heartbeat but not, a presence without a source. Without meaning to, Martin tips his head, trying to locate the origin, taking short steps as the hum shifts according to his position in the room.

It’s not until he’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking at the light fixture dangling precariously from its hook in the ceiling, that Martin realizes the humming is coming from upstairs. The realization prompts a soft inhale, and there, under the dusty smell of dry rot and neglect, is the indescribable scent of ice cold wind and ocean salt. Suddenly the fact that he’s alone doesn’t seem like such a positive, and for a brief moment Martin has to choke back a wave of nausea at the sense of isolation that accompanies that awful, familiar scent.

With a muffled moan and a curse, Martin shakes his head, violently dislodging visions of limpid blue eyes and undefinable horizons. The acrid smell of blood, oil and salt lingers even as the fog dissipates from the edges of his sight. In the background, the humming continues, uninterrupted.

“That was... extremely unpleasant. Great. Wonderful. Awful memories, exactly what I needed, while I’m stuck in a – a creepy old apartment in a .” Gripping the strap of his bag hard enough to turn his knuckles white, Martin forces himself to exhale, then turns on his heel and marches out of the kitchen, tearing himself away from the horrible, comforting hum. He deliberately ignores the urge to breathe in deep.

As soon as he’s back in the entrance way, he finds his eyes drawn up, up into the gloom of the upper floor’s landing. The humming isn’t gone, not like he’d hoped, but it’s almost unnoticeable now, competing against the steady thrum of his own pulse in his ears and the soft susurrus of air through his lungs.

But now he’s almost painfully aware of it, and he knows he won’t be leaving until he learns what it is.

Every step up the stairs is careful, measured. Martin still doesn’t think there’s another person in the apartment, but as he climbs he finds himself seized by a need to be present, aware and considerate in his movements. The hum rises with him, and when he reaches the second floor landing it feels almost like an itch in his ear drums and he can’t tell if the rhythm matches his breathing, or if he’s started breathing in time with it himself.

Now that he’s here, the second floor doesn’t seem nearly as dark, what’s left of the evening light filtering in weakly through cracks in the flimsy boards nailed across the only window. The doors are all closed, the darkness leaking out from under most of them cold and uninviting. At the end of the hallway however, drawing Martin’s eye like a beacon, is the smallest sliver of light.

As he draws nearer Martin squints. What little light seeps from beneath this particular door isn’t right. Its too dim to be the bright white of an electric bulb, and too steady to be the warm yellow of a candle. The door itself seems identical to every other door in the house, richly varnished wood with an ornate brass knob, but when he gets close enough to really look, the similarities end. The grain, so easily identified elsewhere, seems ever so slightly off from centre. It’s not from any tree Martin recognizes, and when he gets close enough to really look, he has to blink, eyes refusing to focus on the knots and whorls. The knob is just as ornate as its matching fellows throughout the house, but Martin’s fairly sure none of them had, he notes with unease, an eye sculpted with loving detail into the metal, shining dust free in the gloom.

Not entirely willing to touch the eye-knob and feeling more and more like he’s about to step into something he can’t possibly get out of, Martin places a gentle hand on the smooth wood of the door and pushes. Despite having been firmly shut, the door swings open softly, revealing the room beyond.

The first thing Martin notices is of course, the light. Compared to the rest of the house this room is, quite literally, glowing. The source is difficult to discern at first, until Martin notices the delicate lanterns, perched in pairs in various places throughout the space and all looking very uncomfortably like eyes. They give off a pale green glow, and for the life of him Martin can’t figure out what’s causing it. After a moment of staring and a growing feeling of something staring back, Martin decides he doesn’t care enough to learn. Instead, he takes in the room itself. He could swear they blink at him when he looks away.

Books. What must be hundreds of books line the walls, packed into shelves and stacked in crooked pillars, some reaching from floor to ceiling. Still more cover every possible surface – piled so high on an old writing desk Martin thinks it might collapse under the weight, and partially obscuring a plush chair, spilling across overstuffed arms and onto the floor. The piles and stacks get denser and denser as Martin steps into the room, some topped with more of those unsettling lanterns.

The deeper into the stacks he goes, the more Martin is convinced that the room is growing. It feels too large for the apartment, much too deep, but trying to think about it logically is like poking a particularly sore bruise, so he stops. His feet, however, do not. Martin thinks he should feel much more than vague unease at this.

Eventually, other things start to join the books and lanterns. Loose-leaf paper, covered in notes and sketches, a full painting of the night sky that Martin has to physically force himself not to look at for very long. Small trinkets like tea cups, some finely carved wooden puppets, a bird cage – full of books, of course – and a number of extremely ornate lighters all decorate the myriad of priceless manuscripts and cheap paperbacks. Through it all, Martin sees a rich green fabric, weaving through and pinned under and between books and trinkets alike, shot through with silver thread in Lichtenberg figures that hurt to look at.

And then, somewhere between too far from the door and just inside it, is the purpose of the room, and Martin suddenly realizes what he’s stumbled upon.

A small altar, made of scraps of driftwood and dwarfed on either side by precarious stacks of books, draped lovingly in that same eye-watering fabric. Next to it, leaning against the wall covered in hastily scribbled eyes that Martin tries very hard to ignore, is a portrait. The man in the frame is neither young nor old, the grey hair at his temples and the severe gaze a counterpoint to the fact that without them, Martin’s fairly certain he would have assumed the subject was the same age as him. His clothes are simple but finely made, and the entire portrait gives off an air of dangerous beauty, made more poignant by the numerous scars that spread out across dark skin like a warning, crawling out from under the fabric at his neck and wrists.

Most alarmingly, it looks like someone has put their own mark on the painting and daubed across the man’s forehead in green paint is the unmistakeable shape of an eye. Martin has to blink a couple times at the image, and each time he does he could swear the eyes – on the wall, on the lanterns, on the painting – blink with him.

Eventually he manages to turn his gaze to the tiny altar table itself. There’s nothing on it, which is odd precisely until Martin looks down and sees the amulet at his feet, staring back up at him with its singular, depthless eye. It’s a small thing, maybe the size of a coin and connected to a delicate chain, but the single stone set within it is dark and flecked with lights that seem to shift and pulse. Despite the fact that the humming that plagued Martin when he first stepped into the kitchen now feels like it’s coming from inside his head, he knows without a doubt the eye looking back at him is the source of it.

He knows, for a given value of knowing, that it belongs to the man in the portrait - The Watcher, They Who See All, The Void Itself – and he should definitely not touch it.

He picks it up.

It seems he’s not quite done making stupid decisions today, because as soon as his fingers wrap gingerly around the metal, the humming shifts. Where it had been neutral, rhythmic and comforting in a strange way, it now has what Martin can only describe as a distinctly pleased tone, though he can’t pinpoint exactly what’s changed about it. It’s also warm, he notes with surprise, as though he’d been holding it for hours and not seconds. Though it looks solid enough, the metal of a high quality and well constructed, it feels delicate. Too light for what it is, like it should be made of cobwebs, of fog and fine dust.

Putting his rucksack down gently next to the altar, he turns the eye over in his hands, inspecting it from all angles. Around the edges, carved with a steady hand, are three words carved in a language Martin’s never seen before. The eye itself is almost unsettling in its accuracy, each lash and fold of skin rendered in loving detail around the stone. There is no sclera, no iris or pupil, just the stone, staring back at Martin, unblinking. As he stares back, the muffled static in the air coalesces into a distinct pressure on Martin’s skin, the weight of eyes, of being watched, heavy on him. Flipping the amulet over breaks the oppressive staring contest with the eye, but that feeling remains, and Martin knows without looking that all the lanterns are watching him intently. It’s not so much upsetting as it is mildly uncomfortable, so he does what he usually does when faced with mild discomfort – he ignores it.

The back of the amulet is divided into thirteen segments, scenes connected at the centre by a slightly simpler eye, all so very detailed that Martin’s fairly certain he’d need a magnifying glass to see everything. None of them mean anything to him, though they all give him vague sort of unease and he thinks maybe it’s a good thing he can’t see the details. That doesn’t stop him from trying though, bringing the amulet closer as though that will make up for the failing of human eyes. As he does, the chain clicks lightly against itself, and Martin has the strangest urge to loop it around his own neck. That shocks him out of his little trance, and with a huff he puts it down quickly but as gently as he can manage on the altar, resolutely ignoring the feeling of loss as he does.

“No thank you, I think I’ve reached my limit. No more poor decision making. No more... touching things out of curiosity. I’m just going to mind my own business until dark, now.” To illustrate, Martin sits himself down gingerly on the floor, back to the altar, and pulls out his knife and the piece of whalebone he put in his pocket earlier.

Despite the low-level discomfort, the shrine room is the brightest place in the apartment, and with no candles to be found, Martin doesn’t particularly want to try touching one of the lanterns, so he throws himself into carving, instead. The piece is almost done, which is a shame, but Martin’s quite proud of it. With delicate movements he etches line after line into the bone, gradually adding details and texture, losing himself in the work.

It’s not until much later that he surfaces, yelping when the knife catches awkwardly and slices into his finger, blood welling up almost instantly when he drops the knife. Biting his lip to keep from cursing out loud, Martin leans over to his bag, hand held up in an attempt to keep the blood from getting on any of the books or fabric around him. It’s a weird position, and he bumps the altar a couple of times with his elbow as he rifles through his things, eventually pulling out some bandages he keeps for exactly this situation.

Once his hand’s all bandaged and the knife cleaned and put away, Martin picks up the piece of bone and sighs. It’s a good thing he’d been mostly done, just adding detail for details sake, because he’s not going to be able to much else until the cut heals. Absentmindedly, he rubs at the small dots of blood that landed on the carving, working the red into the fine lines until the shape of an owl becomes visible, its severe eyes looking out from the bone in a measured gaze. 

Suddenly Martin feels exhausted, tired to his very core in way that seems unnecessary even considering the day he’s had, and he stumbles to his feet. He bumps the altar on his way up once more, something in his pocket catching on the edge of it until he tugs on it, stuffing it back inside and scrambling to pack up his bag at the same time.

Before he manages to take a step towards the door, he pauses, staring at a pair of those creepy lanterns sitting on top of a particularly off-balance stack of books. The humming has quieted down to a barely-perceptible baseline, still just as pleased as before, and he can still feel eyes on him, but it doesn’t feel malicious. It feels more like the gaze of child who hasn’t yet learned that staring is rude, taking everything in with wide eyes, drinking in every new sight with fervour. Heaviest, he thinks, are the eyes of the man in portrait, and he can feel the weight of that stare like a physical touch on the thin skin at the back of his neck.

Taking a deep breath, Martin steps carefully back towards the door of the shrine room. It takes less time than he’d expected, but still longer than he knows it should have, and he pauses once more just inside the threshold, next to a stack of books thankfully lacking in eye-lanterns. It feels... wrong to be leaving without doing something, and the atmosphere in the room feels slightly judgemental, like he’s forgotten some key piece of etiquette in visiting weird logic-defying heretical shrines in abandoned apartments. He doesn’t appreciate it.

“Look, I don’t know what you- Am I supposed to do something? Say goodbye?” He hesitates, “Um. Thank you? I suppose. For your hospitality, and not... I don’t know, driving me mad? I think?” He stumbles over the words, feeling silly for talking directly to what he’s fairly certain is still an empty room. The atmosphere eases slightly at his words, and Martin’s shoulders relax a fraction, but it seems like the room is still waiting for something. Out of the corner of his eye Martin sees a spider, dangling from a gossamer web at the corner of one of the bookcases.

Absently, Martin drags his thumb across the bit of whalebone still in his hand and has a flash of inspiration, reaching up to set it on top of the book stack next to him. In the weird light of the lanterns, the bone seems to glow itself, throwing the owl into sharp relief where Martin’s blood has soaked into the etching. Idly, he thinks maybe its not such a good idea to be giving up a piece of bone covered in his blood to a shrine of what he’s fairly certain is the physical manifestation of the all-consuming void, but he thinks its better than owing the void a favour, which seems like the only alternative.

“I just... alright. Thank you for letting me stay here. Please – please take this as a token of my gratitude? Sorry it’s not more elaborate I suppose, I’m not that talented.” It seems out of place, this tiny piece of bloodstained scrimshaw among all these rich fabrics and books, but as Martin’s fingers leave the bone, the pressure around him seems to ease.

“Great. Thanks. I’ll just. Take my leave now I guess. Have a good... evening?”

Not waiting to see what constitutes a goodbye from a shrine to the void, Martin hurries down the stairs and slips out of the apartment into the dark street. The district is quiet and dark now, no sign of the Body Counters or their cart this late at night, and Martin steps quickly through the shadows, heart in his throat at the prospect of getting caught.

In his pocket, an amulet hums with quiet curiosity.

In a place that isn’t, the void holds its breath, as The Watcher tips his head in interest and opens his eyes with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> My thought process was as follows:
> 
> What if all the fears were part of the same thing? What if they were just manifestations of the powers of a separate plane of existence leeching into ours? What if Jon was the physical embodiment of these powers? What if Elias was still a bastard?
> 
> Basically, what if TMA met the Dishonored franchise, because why not.
> 
> I have. a lot of ideas for this particular au but the image of Martin stumbling across a shrine dedicated to Weird Void God Jon just wouldn't get out of my head. If I have the energy this might turn into a series of interconnected oneshots, because I have the entire universe planned out at this point.
> 
> This is also my first foray into writing for TMA, so I have... no idea if it works or not. Let me know?
> 
> Wanna know more? feel free to shoot me an ask at rnortalitasi on tumblr. I need more people to talk to abt TMA.


End file.
